Did you know Toronto is now bigger than Chicago?

Hello from Toronto! And also, hello from a hostel common room, where we are watching Gone in 60 Seconds, which I am hereby citing as the reason why any of the following sentences make no sense, or are interrupted by phrases like “Why is this happening?” and “Let’s drive!”

The sign above the customs line in Toronto Pearson International Airport advised an estimated waiting time of 46 minutes, so nearly an hour-long demonstration of the secret that humans are tremendously capable of determining our own reality.

We all had the same line, and the bell curve’s hump just zombied through it, but as usual, instruction was in the extremes. The businessman in a fine suit in front of me called three different people to complain about it. Must be swell to be on his contact list. The lady in the fur coat looked positively appalled that she was being asked to do something so mundane, so quotidian, so….proletarian as wait in line. The gall!

The family in jeans joked with each other and took turns carrying a duffel bag. The gal-pals in hooded sweatshirts were cracking up. There were giant grins on some of the Jamaicans who had just returned from Montego Bay, and they had not yet broken into the identical cardboard boxes presumably housing two bottles of rum that nearly everyone seemed to be carrying.

Did you notice an apparent correlation between economic status and attitude? Me too. How remarkable.

Yes the line was long, and no, there was nothing anyone could do about it. So why be pissed?

I used credit card reward points for my flight here, and had enough left for a night’s stay in a fancy-shmancy hotel. I even upgraded from a queen bed to a king, or maybe an emperor, I don’t remember, but it was stupidly large. Excess does not suit me, and I just felt slight remorse at increasing someone’s laundry load. And I really don’t have room for more tiny bars of hotel soap in my bag, I’m bursting with cleaning potential.

That’s a good thing, because after a night in a dorm room full of backpacker dudes, I can use a good scrubbing. I think I violated a blogging length rule with that post about otters and whatnot, so I’ll save the other sights and smells of this rather fantastic hostel and city for next time.

But I am quite happily back on the road, not yet cured of those vagabond urges.

Giovanni and Duvall won, but I don’t consider Ms. Jolie to ever do so, and I view Cage with the affection-disgust of a furballing cat (which comes to mind since the hostel cat just did). Must be hard being a hostel cat in Amsterdam, the poor stoney bastard.